


Hayloft

by agreatmanythings



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 80s, Alternate Universe - High School, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Enemies to Lovers, First Time Blow Jobs, Gay Chicken, Harry is disgusting in this I am so sorry, Harry needs therapy, Inspired by Stranger Things (TV 2016), M/M, Masturbation, POV Harry Styles, Period-Typical Homophobia, Poor Niall, Semi-Public Sex, Smut, Teenage boys are disgusting, pls don’t read if you’re a child this really ain’t for you, this is the best homophobia I have ever tasted
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-12
Updated: 2021-02-21
Packaged: 2021-03-12 13:02:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29385294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/agreatmanythings/pseuds/agreatmanythings
Summary: Harry is a bitter and horny Californian with too many rings and an angry Camaro. Louis is a rich, hot Midwesterner who’s maybe a little bit lonely. Niall just wants to wear his letterman jacket cause it’s too goddamn cold in Indiana.
Relationships: Harry Styles/Louis Tomlinson
Comments: 18
Kudos: 23





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: This story is about fictional versions of real people and in no way represent who they really are. 
> 
> So, maybe this is heavily based off of the Harringrove ship from Stranger Things. It be like that sometimes.

# Introduction

There comes a time in nearly every young man’s life when he is abruptly faced with the undeniable truth that he likes cock. For Harry, his moment came in freshman year of high school, when Steve Sobieski sat on his lap in the cramped back seat of some junior’s Chevy. When Steve didn’t jump off in horror at young Harry’s obvious boner jamming into the Levi’s label, Harry came to the conclusion that perhaps, he wasn’t the only one. 

First was Steve with his shy smile and heated pool, then Billy with his screaming guitar and curled mullet, then Tommy with his overwhelming freckles and letterman jacket, and Jonathan with his vinyl records and cheap pot. And during those daliences, were Nancy, Barbra, Carol, Karen, Debbie, Margaret, Cindy, and Tessa. By the time the summer before senior year arrived, Harry had both genders operating like a well oiled bicycle. The girls on the front tire, each young lady a new spoke in the wheel, all shiny with milkshake dates and kisses in his Camaro. And the boys on the back tire, hidden behind the heteronormativity with bruised hickies and locker room fucks. 

It was only a matter of time before the bicycle of repressed sexuality crashed. 

One tragic night was all it took before Harry found himself being dragged by his father across the map of the United States, stepmom and step brother along for the haul until the picture-perfect picket-fence Styles-Horan household wound up in the heart of the country. Wayne, Indiana. Informally known as the middle of bumfuck nowhere.


	2. a fucking dragon, motherfucker

# a fucking dragon, motherfucker

Leaning forward in his chair, Harry reaches over the principal's name plaque to pluck a hard strawberry candy from the bowl on her desk. (You know, the kind that no one knows the name of but every grandma has at least a handful of individually wrapped ones in her purse.) Niall shoots him a look, sitting all straight and proper in his chair, both of their folders tucked neatly on his lap. Harry just shrugs. 

“Strawberry,” he says, peeling the two-layered wrapper and balling it within his fist, “My favorite.” He pops the red candy into his open mouth, letting it clink against every tooth as he swishes it with his saliva. 

Niall only sighs, and turns back to the principal with a smile as she clears her throat. 

“So, it seems all the transfer paperwork is in order, though it will be difficult to sort out your schedules since it is already October 3rd, and you have missed a portion of the semester,” she says, folding her hands over the ancient bulk of furniture she calls her desk. The Styles-Horan boys are currently tucked into the creaking chairs across from Principal Maleski, drowning in the stench of dirty coffee pots and whatever god-forsaken nail polish she uses to top off the wrinkled tips of her fingers. 

One week ago they lived in Eroda, California, all tanned from the summer with their senior year well under way and an uneasy alliance between the two new step-brothers. Today, they live in Wayne, Indiana, trying to smush themselves into the only high school this city has to offer, with the two having barely spoken to each other in a week, and a healing gash in the corner of Harry’s left brow and a green tint to the bags under his eyes. 

“I’m sure you could squeeze us into your-” Harry begins, strawberry candy tucked into his teeth as he takes an exaggerated scan of the cubicle-sized office, green eyes swiping over the tan walls and water-stained popcorn ceiling. “-very fine establishment.”

The principal stares over coaster-sized lenses. 

“We appreciate your help, Principal Maleski, really,” Niall quickly slides in, hand resting on the edge of her desk.

“Of course, we’re excited to have you at Wayne High-“ Harry’s eyes roll. “-Now you expressed interest in the swim team, I believe?” 

Niall smiles, all Californian sun. “Yes, we were on our team back hom- back in California.” 

“And dive,” Harry says, twirling the candy round his mouth with his dyed tongue. 

“Right,” Niall adds, “And the dive team.” 

Principal Maleski glances back down at their papers, licking the tip of her finger before flipping the top sheet over. “Well, we don’t have a dive team-“ 

A violent _crunch_ cuts her off as Harry bites the candy in half, ringed fingers freezing around the wrapper. “Excuse me?” he asks. He feels Niall sigh beside him. 

Principal Maleski glances up. “Is there a problem, Mr. Styles?” 

Harry blinks at her from where he tenses forward, the wooden armrests digging into his elbows. He smooths his tongue over the broken candy. “You. Don’t have. A dive team.” 

Mascara-clumped eyes stare back. “Correct. Although we do have one diver. A rather fine young man who has been carrying that banner for our school for the past three years.” 

“ _One._ Diver.” 

“Is there a problem here, Mr. Styles?” 

Harry eyes the glasses sliding down her nose and the obnoxious brooch pinned to her sweater. His nostrils burn from the coffee and elbows are sore from the armrest. Niall is silent beside him. 

“No,” Harry finally says, leaning back in his seat, “No problem at all. Although this diver should expect some competition this season.” 

“You will be on the same team, Mr. Styles. If Coach Harbor allows you to join after the season has already begun.” 

Harry grins. “And here I thought there was no dive team.” 

#

Niall’s sneakers squeak down the empty school hallway as he shuffles after Harry. “Did you have to be such a smart ass?” he scolds upon catching up. 

Hideous orange lockers line the empty hallways, scuffed and rusted, matching the musty yellow along the cinder block walls and the dim lights that catch on the varsity pins of his Californian letterman jacket. Harry doesn’t spare him a glance. His sixth strawberry candy clicks against his teeth. 

“We’re not in California anymore,” he says. 

Niall snorts as he falls into stride down the hallway. “I’ll tell you what, Sherlock Holmes-“ 

“So lose the jacket.” 

Niall nearly halts, clutching the thick material closer to his chest, clearly offended at even daring the thought. “No. It’s my senior year and it’s fucking cold here.” 

Harry scoffs, strutting ahead despite his step brother’s protests. “It’s Indiana. Not the Arctic. Though I’d take freezing my balls off anyday over being stuck in this hillbilly hellhole.” 

Niall finally stops, watching as Harry carries on, his denim jacket swishing over his shoulders with every step, long curls tucked into the collar. 

“And whose fault is that?” 

Harry freezes. The words are quiet, not the usual Niall volume, but they carry down the empty hallway anyway, following Harry, echoing with an obvious tinge of bitterness and resentment that had seeped into their “step-brotherly bond” within the last week. The collection of wrappers crinkle in his fist as he clenches, veins running tight beneath the sleeves of his denim jacket. 

The bell screeches through the silence. Students rapidly swarm the hallways, drowning out the step brothers in a sea of causcasity. Niall never hears Harry’s quiet, “Your’s,” before he disappears entirely in the flood. 

#

Harry doesn’t attend a single class that morning. Instead, he situates himself in the parking lot, leaning against the hood of his red Camaro, smoking his way through a pack of cigarettes, the simmering ends littered on the pavement around his artfully scuffed converse, having burnt away the taste of strawberry from his tongue. With his car pressed into his hips, he could have left, could have gone anywhere, he knows. But even one’s most prized sports car won’t shake the feeling of being weighed down, of being suffocated in the confinement of Wayne, Indiana. Even the sky looks fucking depressed. It doesn’t stop him from planning his retreat to the west coast though. 

A handful of students fill the parking lot around him, heading for their cars in clicks of rollered hair and letterman jackets (much uglier than the one Niall was wearing this morning, uglier than the one tucked deep in a cardboard box somewhere in Harry’s new room). Harry lights up a new cigarette and curses senior lunch privileges. He knows Niall won’t come out to find him. Knows the blonde is probably already comfortably nestled within a friend group, who will make space at their lunch table for him and offer up an invite to some basement hangout tonight. California was no different. The man radiates sunshine, surf and serotonin. Harry can’t imagine what the Midwestern moths will do to him here. 

“It’s nice to finally meet the culprit.” 

A voice snatches Harry from his brooding. Lifting his gaze from the cigarette he holds, Harry finds blue eyes through the smoke. Blue like the tumbling ocean waves or the eternal cloudless sky. Blue like his old house or his mom’s crystal pendant. Blue like a life thousands of miles away. 

A student stands before him, sneakers stopping right at Harry’s unintentional war zone of cigarette butts. He’s short, maybe a head more so than Harry, with tousled brown hair and a clever tilt to his thin lips. And he’s wearing the most god-awful navy and green striped polo Harry’s ever seen, tucked all neatly into his jeans and a tan jacket that probably cost more than Harry’s Camaro, tossed lazily under one arm, the other supporting his backpack. 

“My parking spot,” he speaks up, when it becomes awkwardly obvious that Harry wasn’t going to say anything. Just stare like some psycho. “You stole it.” Maybe the sentence should sound like an accusation, like this little prep is pointing fingers, but somehow that’s not quite right, nor is it necessarily friendly. 

Harry eyes the students then slowly turns, taking a long drag as he scans his car and the trees standing at his spoiler, casting bits of shade over them from the grey skies above. 

“Don’t see a name on it,” Harry drawls, exhaling plumes of smoke as he faces forward again. 

The student shrugs. “Didn’t see you at our school before today. Or in our town for that matter.” 

And oh, that makes a grin stretch over Harry’s lips, exposing his teeth like revealing his claws. “Bright young man. I can see why daddy bought you that jacket.” 

The smile Harry hadn’t realized was nestled on the corner of the student’s lips, drops. The blue morphs into rough waters and darkened skies. Harry waits for a retort, bristles for impact, for a reason to sink his teeth in and draw blood. 

It’s been a long goddamn week. He’s itching, fucking _yearning_ for a fight. 

But as a soft breeze whistles through the tree above them, the flare of anger vanishes as quickly as it brewed from the blue, leaving behind a hardened sapphire. “Whatever, tough guy,” the student says, words flat on his tongue. “Enjoy your lunch.” 

He's turning away before Harry gets a chance to process the retreat. Something akin to disappointment flickers in his gut. There was fight in the blue, a bite and fury behind those irises. And yet, the student only walked away, like Harry wasn’t worth it. The thought spurs bitterness in his throat. 

“What are you, the prince of this bumfuck school?” Harry calls out. It’s a lame attempt and it clearly doesn’t hit its mark, but letting him walk away only made Harry’s jaw clench and palms itch. No one walks away from Harry Styles. Especially not this fucking prep. 

The student does turn around, does switch his attention back to Harry, but it’s like he’s offering his response instead of aiming to strike. Like he’s humoring Harry. 

“What does that make you?” 

And the student is turning away, unlocking a fancy blue Cadillac (blue like his eyes) and climbing into the driver’s seat beside some girl who’s waiting in the passenger, not bothering to give Harry a chance to rear up, to spit some retort or beat his face in. 

“A fucking dragon, motherfucker,” Harry whispers into smoke as the blue Cadillac drives away. But even before the words leave his lips they sound fucking lame and somehow worse than not saying anything. 

Another cigarette butt is tossed to the ground before Harry lights up the next one. 

(A dragon? Really?)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please tell me someone knows what strawberry candy I’m talking about


	3. you can be pretty fucking gay in Indiana

# you can be pretty fucking gay in Indiana

Fuck if Harry doesn’t love a good party. It’s the one thing him and Niall can agree on. Of course, Harry wasn’t the one invited. Not a soul approached him after “the prince” left (that’s what Harry has decided to call him; it’s better than Blue Eyes or Ocean Blue) driving away from Harry in his fancy car, girlfriend tucked in his passenger side. 

Harry tells himself he likes it. With the radius he seems to cast out, he might as well have been snarling like a dog anytime some underclassmen dared to step too near. He had a radius in California. One few were allowed to step past. It was just smaller. Much, much smaller and didn’t take up the eight surrounding parking spaces, banning the poor souls who dared to park too close. 

Niall is the one who gets invited to the party. 

“You going to Rachel’s thing tonight?” he asks as Harry drives them away from the god-forsaken orange lockers and brooch-wearing principals. Harry’s converse clamps down on the gas pedal, screeching the tires and staining the pavement as he rips out of the parking lot. 

“Who the fuck is Rachel?” he grits over the rage of the engine. 

Niall leans back in the seat, sinking into the leather. He never seemed to be phased by Harry’s fury-induced driving. “Dunno,” he shrugs, tapping his fingers on the passenger door, “But she’s having a party tonight.” 

“It’s Tuesday.” 

“Yeah? And what the fuck else are they gonna do in Indiana?” Harry’s rings clink together as he flexes his hand over the steering wheel, zipping past stop signs and “Watch For Children” warnings. Niall’s got a point. 

“Is this you inviting me?” Harry asks. 

“Well I don’t exactly have a car, so...” 

“Obviously.” 

#

Six hours later, Harry finds himself upside down, booted ankles held high in the air by some random jocks, elbows locked with hands gripping the keg handles, and his lips around the nozzle, guzzling the rapid flow of stale, cheap beer. Another senior mirrors his position right beside him, feet in the air and mouth full of beer. A crowd has gathered around them, chanting a solid echo of _“Drink! Drink! Drink!”_ Harry doesn’t know a single one of these kids, except for maybe Niall lost somewhere in the herd. But boy does he love their attention, their drunk smiles and glassy eyes all trained on him. Him and the guy who's about to lose anyway. 

The beer rushes down his throat, surging through his organs, sloshing around his already pounding head, and dribbling down his chin. The first time Harry did this, he puked all over the keg. This time, he takes the onslaught of water-boarded alcohol with ease. It’s like a fight right? It burns and sings and makes you feel all kinds of woozy but above all, it’s make you feel so fucking alive. Harry knows he’s won when he hears his competition drop to the grass with a solid _thunk_. The crowd erupts into a cacophony of slurred cheers. The blood is rushing to his skull and he started seeing double not long ago, but Harry drags it out, just for a little while, reveling in the undivided attention and devotion. This morning not a single student knew his name. Tomorrow, they all fucking will. 

Harry let’s himself fall nearly half a minute after his competition, dropping his boots confidently on the ground beneath so as not to crash like the other guy. So what if he kicks the face of the jock who held him up? The blood floods to his feet as Harry stands upright, beer running down his throat, pooling in his collar bone and dripping between his exposed pecks in a barely buttoned shirt Niall only raised an eyebrow at earlier. He holds his arms high, tilting his head back, letting his sweaty curls dangle behind him, bending his knees and holding his breath, eyes closed to the Indiana night sky. The crowd loses their fucking minds when he spews the last gulp of beer into the air, thrusting his arms down as the shower pours over crowd and his chest, like a motherfucking dragon. Yeah okay, he could get used to being worshipped by these Midwestern hicks. 

A hand pounds into his back, another clutching his wrist and throwing it in the air. “Looks like we’ve got a new keg record!” the jock shouts, a smear of dirt from Harry’s boot drying across his nose. 

Students cheer and drink and as Harry runs his free hand through his dampened curls, he swears he hears like three girls moan. A lazy grin stretches across his beer-glazed lips. 

“You know what that means, Liam!” the jock beside Harry shouts, dropping his wrist to clutch at his competition’s flannel. 

The keg stand loser (Liam apparently) rolls his eyes but smiles all tipsy, short brown hair a tousled mess, sticking up on all ends as he does the unthinkable. With the middle finger to the jock beside Harry, Liam drops to his knees, right at Harry’s feet, chin level with Harry’s belt buckle, jeans sinking in the grass, as he parts his wetted lips and sticks his tongue out, looking up expectantly at Harry. 

And this is- this is not at all what Harry was expecting. His brain short circuits. 

A red solo cup is shoved into his face, blocking the shocking view. It reeks of vodka but Harry takes it anyway, just as the jock beside him says, “Winner fountains to the loser!” 

And isn’t that some Midwest homoerotic frat boy shit. But this Liam is kneeling before him, lips inches from his dick and tongue out, drunk caramel eyes looking expectantly up at him. You can’t be gay in Indiana. But apparently, you can be pretty fucking gay in Indiana. 

The crowd hollers as Harry tips the vodka back, shoving the whole portion within his bloated cheeks, the liquor burning out his sinuses and scathing any remaining taste buds off his tongue. Then he looks down. And Liam waits patiently for him. With a clammy, ringed hand, Harry brings it to Liam’s sweaty cheek, patting the stubble there fondly, as if they were the best of pals and not total strangers, before he hooks his thumb beneath Liam’s chin, holding his open jaw in place. Liam goes pliant in his hands. Interesting. And before the vodka can begin to bleach his teeth, Harry leans down till their lips are inches apart, Liam’s tipsy breath on his skin, and spits the lukewarm, saliva-vodka concoction down Liam’s open throat. The crowd roars. So they’re into homoerotic, gay-not-gay shit. Harry can give em that. 

#

He is the king of the party that night. After the keg stand and gay vodka fountain, Harry is paraded around the house party like he’s the best thing to ever grace the streets of Wayne, Indiana. And he kinda figures, that he is. Girls sidle up to him and slip drunkenly scribbled numbers on napkins into his pockets and belt, and guys pound him on the back and shove drinks into his hands and holler at absolutely everything he does. He thinks he sees Niall pressing some brunette against the kitchen counter, concealing them in his letterman jacket when someone gives him another drink. 

Harry is properly smashed. The room spins and every bark of laughter around him morphs into slow motion, jocks with their mouths open and girls with their hair bouncing. The floral wallpaper crawls and the yellow light fixtures sway and Harry thinks maybe tomorrow morning is gonna absolutely fucking suck but the thought is quickly drowned in the next red cup. He takes body shots off three different girls, their stomachs all sweaty and soft and makeup smeared. He throws slices of bologna found in the fridge and tosses them on the ceiling, and everybody thinks it’s the fucking funniest shit they’ve ever seen. 

Harry has some girl whispering in his ear, nail-polished hands running down his stomach, quickly making for his belt and he can’t for the life of him hear what the fuck she’s saying but he thinks her perfume smells like Macy’s when homoerotic Liam grabs his shoulder. 

“Tomlinson is here!” Liam shouts, yanking Harry from the girl with an iron grip on his elbow. 

“Who?” 

Liam shouts again, but the noise is lost in the music as they weave through the crowd. 

“What?” 

“Tomlinson!” Liam repeats in his face, breath curdled with alcohol and Harry’s fountained vodka. 

“Who the fuck is Tomlinson?” 

“You beat his keg record!” 

And oh, Harry hadn’t spared a thought to who he might have dethroned. Liam tightens his grip on Harry’s elbow and drags them through the sweaty pit of a living room, until they’re back in the sticky-countered kitchen, Niall and his tonsil-hockey buddy long gone. A couple stands by the sink, backs to them as they talk amongst themselves. A sober Harry would have seen the tension in the guy’s shoulders and the furrow of the girl’s brow. But a plastered Liam and Harry bowl right into their clearly private moment. 

“Tommo!” Liam shouts, free hand smacking down on the guy’s shoulder. He flinches with the impact. “Styles beat your keg-stand record!” 

The former keg stand king turns around, and it takes a second, but even dead drunk Harry comes to recognize those Californian blue eyes. That’s not a king. That’s a fucking parking-lot prince. His earlier tousled hair is styled back all slick and smooth, and suddenly his soft cheekbones are sharp as a double-edged sword, curving beneath his blue eyes. Who the fuck has bone structure like that in Indiana? It’s a shame, Harry finds himself drunkenly thinking. A goddamn shame. 

Subconsciously, Harry puffs out his chest and lifts his chin, eyebrows pulling taut in a predatory stare. But the prince -Tomlinson- doesn’t square up, doesn’t bite some retort or even laugh and clap him on the back like every other fucker here. No. When his blue eyes meet a drunken Harry’s, they only harden, like they did only earlier that day, like a sea turning into stone. 

The girl beside him scoffs, crossing her arms and stepping away, shouldering Harry with animosity despite being a foot shorter before disappearing behind them. Her floral perfume lingers after her departure. Tomlinson’s eyes flicker to follow her, taking them away from Harry’s face. 

“You’re missing out, Tommo!” Liam shouts between them, clamping a hand on both their shoulders, like a father trying to get his sons to bond. “You gotta fight for your crown!” 

Tomlinson looks back at Harry. “Maybe next time,” is all he says, words so inappropriately quiet that Harry thinks he might have imagined them, before he’s walking away from Harry for the second time that day, like he doesn’t think Harry Styles is worth his time. 

And doesn’t that just make his drunken blood boil. Liam shoves another drink at him. Harry tosses it back without hesitation, marking the beginning of his absolute memory blackout.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> did I write this while waiting for a tow truck because my car engine tried to blow up? 
> 
> I’ll never tell
> 
> xoxo


	4. it’s a Californian thing

# it’s a Californian thing

Harry forgets about Niall that night. Harry rolls into first hour alone having slept in his car, sunglasses resting on his nose and stolen strawberry candy between his teeth. 

“I’m sorry, who are you?” the teacher stops him before he reaches the first row of desks, already filled for the morning. 

He turns lazily, like he’s got all the time in the world, when in reality, he’s trying not to heave up his guts onto the scuffed floor. She’s young with blown out hair and shoulder pads, heavy blush on her cheeks. He grins, tasting the stale alcohol on his breath despite squirting a heap of toothpaste onto his fuzzy tongue from the spare tube in his glove box. 

“Harry.” 

Tipping his sunglasses down, his red-rimmed eyes drop obviously to the pearl necklace tight about her collar. “That’s a lovely necklace,” he says, with one last sharp grin, before leading himself to the last row, and plopping down like a sack of potatoes, legs sprawled out into the aisles, tinted lenses hiding the hangover headache threatening to split his skull. 

“Pssst, Styles!” someone whispered aggressively as the teacher begins her speil. The slightest turn of his head and furrow of his brows are all he offers said whisperer. It’s Liam (Liam who dropped to his knees before Harry and turned submissive in his hold just the night before) sitting beside him, broad shoulders and chest too large for the ancient connected seat and desk. His hair that was oh-so ruffled last night is perfectly quaffed and styled, fresh gel above his temples and the most crisp polo Harry had ever seen buttoned perfectly to his throat. “Hell of a party, eh?” 

Harry raises an eyebrow above the frame of his glasses. Is this man not fucking hungover? “I wouldn’t know,” he drawls. 

Liam stifles a laugh. “Is there something wrong, Mr. Payne?” the teacher calls out. 

The blush that floods his cheeks is as red as his shirt. “Uh, no, Ms. Macovich. Sorry… ma’am.” 

The candy in Harry’s mouth melts to a sliver of nothingness. He’s pulling out another from his pocket as Liam leans back over. 

“Nialler told me you guys are joining the swim team.” 

“Nialler...” Harry repeats to himself, concentrating on unwrapping his next candy, the foil slippery between his fingers. 

“That’s awesome, we could really use guys like you.” 

“I dive,” Harry mutters, tossing the candy back, “I don’t race unless I have to.” 

“Just as awesome,” Liam says, large frame hanging half out of his seat to lean into the aisle towards Harry, “Louis’ been our only diver for two years.” 

This makes Harry turn to look at him. “Louis?” 

“Yea, you know him.” 

Harry raises an eyebrow, pulling at his lip thoughtfully. “Apparently I know many people after last night.” 

Liam reaches across the aisle to push at Harry with his knuckles pressing into Harry’s denim jacket. “You absolutely wrecked his keg stand record.” 

The playback of last night’s memories reel through Harry’s head in a haze as blurry images flash then fade and- oh. 

Tomlinson. Parking lot Prince. 

Harry grins, candy slipping behind his cut teeth. “Well ain’t that funny.” 

#

Harry makes his first appearance on the pool deck that afternoon. The school day has ended, stuffed with classes he doesn’t remember and teachers who pretend not to love his blinding smile and overly-polite introductions. Niall is already on deck with the swim team, cap and goggles between his teeth as he huddles with the other nearly-naked boys before the chalkboard of practice drills. Harry ignores them, and makes for the far side of the pool. Every high school pool is the exact same. Same slimy tile, same dusty rafters, same shaky starting blocks, same stifling humid heat that makes you sweat at the roots of your hair, just above your collar. Though, as most swimmers would agree, every pool tastes different despite using the same chemicals in the water. Something he tries not to think too hard about. 

Harry struts across the pool deck, sun-tanned skin totally exposed save for the hand towel tossed on his shoulder and the thin green speedo suctioned to his ass and balls, slung low on the V of his hips. Floor slick beneath his bare feet and hair thrown messily into a bun, he reaches the far side of the deck, where the pool slopes drastically to one side, dropping from four feet to twelve feet deep in a matter of inches. The diving board juts out from the pool edge, hanging stiffly over the center of the dive tank, blue water below it shuffling gently from the jets on the far walls of the pool. And beside it, stands Louis Tomlinson. Or half of Louis Tomlinson. 

He’s folded over at the waist, stretching his arms to press his palms flat to the floor, knees straight and spine stretched, ass high in a tight blue speedo. Of course it’s fucking blue. The color stark against the pale slope of his back and the slightest dimples indenting into the sides of his spine. 

Harry slaps the pale skin upon reaching him, the smack of his wide palms echoing throughout the pool deck, earning a few glances from the crowd of swimmers. But Harry pays them no mind. He is focused solely on the way Tomlinson starts, staring up at him from upside down, before slowly drawing the chain of his spine upward, vertebrae by vertebrae. Harry feels the way the disks in his back shift as Tomlinson stands, keeping his hand splayed against the small of his back. The other diver is staring at him, brows pinched in confusion and jaw tight in annoyance as he stares at Harry, dark circles swaying beneath his blue eyes. Harry wonders if they’ve always been there. 

“Do you mind?” Tomlinson asks, not pushing Harry’s hand away, nor stepping aside to further himself. He plants himself firmly at Harry’s side, letting Harry’s bare fingers remain spread across the dip in his lower back. 

“I feel like we got off on the wrong foot, amigo,” Harry begins, shooting Tomlinson his classic panty-melting, shark-toothed grin, all unnerving and predatory. 

When Tomlinson makes no attempt to reply, just openly stares, blue eyes bored, Harry removes his hand to extend it between the two of them for a handshake. His rings feel instantly colder without the heat of Tomlinson pressed into them. Tomlinson eyes Harry’s hand and the four different rings, before moving away, leaving him hanging. 

“Yeah, we did.” 

The other diver is swiping his water bottle from the steps of the diving board and taking a swig, Adam’s apple bobbing with every swallow, the initial glistening of sweat beginning to dampen the roots of his hair from the humidity. A flicker of anger flashes through Harry’s chest before it morphs into a twisted thrill. A challenge. A chase. Harry hasn’t caught a whiff of that in this cow-dung town until this parking lot prince, and like a wild animal, he relishes in the way it pricks his senses. “Playing hard to get, Tomlinson?” he grins, “I like a good challenge.” 

Tomlinson scoffs, putting his water back down. “Not playing at all.” 

Placing himself on the other side of the diving board, the other diver lifts his arms to stretch, before leaning over one way on spread legs, working the tight muscles in his thighs and sides. Harry is standing above him in an instant, towel discarded to reach high for the rafters, elongating his lats and triceps, speedo positioned perfectly level with Louis’ head. 

“First, I steal your parking spot,” Harry begins as Tomlinson tries to switch his position away from Harry’s hips, but Harry only shifts with him, “Then your keg stand title. This Friday, at the meet, it’ll be your points-“ 

“We’re on the same team.” 

“And after that, who knows? Maybe I’ll go for your obscenely flashy car or, what about that brunette you’re carting around? Maybe I will steal her too.” 

That makes Tomlinson stand tall (still shorter than Harry), and look at Harry -truly look at Harry- for the first time that day. In those blue eyes stirs a storm, a great whirlwind of furious waves and rolling skies, and Harry thinks that this is the golden ticket. Of course it’s the girlfriend subject that poses as the most tempting bait. Harry only grins wider, but clenches his fists in preparation for a fight. From this close he can see the veins throbbing just below Louis’ temple, and the tight draw of his lips, strips of red in place of bitten off skin. He thinks he smells the faintest trace of vanilla (not his girlfriend’s floral perfume) in the pores of Tomlinson’s skin, ignited by the humid sweat. Harry wonders if his sweat tastes like vanilla too. 

“The ref won’t let you wear those at the meet on Friday,” is all Tomlinson says, nodding to the rings on Harry’s fingers, as the fight drains right from his eyes. He’s turning away and leaving a swell of frustration and disappointment in Harry’s gut, before the thrill comes back full force. The game plays on. 

#

_“Oh fuck, right there! Fuck, Harry.”_

Harry can’t for the life of him remember the girl attached to the pussy on his tongue. She’s sat in the corner of his backseat, skirt hiked up and panties thrown aside, hands clutching the headrests and permed hair pressing into the glass. Running his fingers higher up her thighs, he presses the skin harder, the soft-hairless flesh pliant beneath his grip. He is crammed half on the floor and half on the back seat, nose buried into a freshly trimmed landing strip, tongue hooked under the hood of her clit. The windows are steaming around them, radio still playing some Scorpions song, electric guitar crooning into the night with generically-named girl’s moans. Harry’s got the Camaro parked on the edge of town, some fields of corn blocking one side of the car and a strip of woods the other. Safe enough he figures. 

Nameless girl’s pink nails skim through his hair before he has a chance to stop them, their manicured tips grazing over his scalp. A ringed hand snatches her wrist, stilling it instantly in his death hold. Her eyes shoot open to stare down at him, broken from her wet trance, cheeks flushed and glossed lips parted. Harry’s jaw tightens as he glares up at her, slick from her pussy smeared down his chin. And he should be so turned on, should be dying to sink his cock deep into her vagina, plush walls lubed and tight around him. He should want to fuck her into oblivion till his cum is dripping down her thighs. And yeah, okay he’d be lying if he said he wasn’t slightly hard in his jeans. Making someone moan your name would do that to any regular narcissist. But fucking her and watching her tits bounce is that last thing he wants to do right now. She remains silent before him, thin wrist still in his clutch, staring expectantly down at him. Harry grits his teeth and drops his hand back to her thigh, yanking her lower on the seat. 

“C’mere,” he mutters, sliding her bare ass down on the leather, the back of her skirt riding up as she squeals in surprise. 

“What are you-“ 

His tongue is back on her, instantly shutting down any protests. But he doesn’t stop at her clit, or even her vagina and the soaked layers of skin surrounding it. Removing his hands from her thighs, Harry grasps her ass cheeks and spreads them, before dipping down to flatten his tongue right on her asshole, running his taste buds over her ridges. And that, earns a different kind of noise from her. 

He’s back in the driver's seat by the time she finishes getting dressed, plopping into the passenger side with her hair a tangled cloud of blonde and her panties crumpled into the pocket of her sweater. 

“I’ve never had someone… do that before,” she says, all orgasmicly hazy and feminine. Harry throws the car into reverse. “Is it like a Californian thing?” 

He grunts, unlit cigarette dangling between his teeth. “Sure.” 

The Camaro speeds down the two lane road, trees and fields flickering by as the October moon dangles above them. 

“You know I could-“ she begins, sliding a hand over the center console to curl around his thigh, all dainty-fingered and gentle, “-do a thing or two to you. You’re not the only one who knows how to use their mouth.” 

Harry shifts in his seat, so her touch falls from his jeans. “It’s late,” is all he says, before dropping her off post-orgasm like a respectable gentleman. She’ll be bitter about his rejection, but tomorrow she’ll saunter up to school and gossip to any chick who will listen, all about how she had sex with Harry Styles. And her job will be done.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s true. Every high school pool tastes different and I have no fucking clue why


	5. it’s from Paris, asshole

# it’s from Paris, asshole

Louis Tomlinson is incredibly flexible. It’s the one thing Harry is slightly jealous of. 

As the first week at Wayne High drifts by, Harry comes to memorize the flex of Tomlinson’s calve muscles when he lines himself on the edge of the board, the shifting ridges in his back when he lifts his arms, and the one final breath expanding in his chest, as if expelling any doubts before hoisting himself into the air. He’s kinda fucking good. Of course, Harry is better. What he lacks in flexibility he makes up for with spunk and a sharp, blade -like precision, surging himself higher with every crack of the board, slicing the air with fervor on every turn or flip, muscles coiled then snapping, straightening his body before spearing into the chlorine-fogged water below. 

Friday crawls around and with it comes the Styles-Horan boys’ first swim meet. There aren’t nearly as many spectators as there would have been back in California. And the opposing team’s roster is the fucking saddest thing Harry has ever seen. But Niall swims the long distance races and crushes the other swimmers, slamming into the wall with gusto as he finishes laps before his opponents. 

Richard Styles and Susan Horan cheer for him. They’re sitting at the end of the bleachers, Susan sporting Wayne High’s maroon and gold colors, blonde hair twisted back with a spider-like clip. Richard wears his normal dress shirt, tucked neatly into his belt, mouth set into a hard line beneath his mustache. He claps when Niall wins, calloused hands slapping together with drilled, jar-head precision. Harry doesn’t look at them once. 

Diving rolls around halfway through the meet, and Tomlinson is up first. Harry smacks him a little too hard on the back as he makes his way to the board, palm echoing against the humid skin of Tomlinson’s shoulder blade. The tiniest flinch wrecks through the other diver’s spine, invisible to the spectators on the pool deck, but Harry feels it ripple through his finger tips. Tomlinson walks away without a word, clutching at the diving board handles, bare feet curled around each rung as he climbs the taped steps. They hadn’t talked all day. Tomlinson was present in their shared fifth hour, seated across the room from Harry, despite both their seats being in the back row. His head seemed to hang especially low, tousled fringe sweeping the tip of his pencil as he wrote. During the meet warmups, they swam with the team, then Tomlinson ditched the warm up dives to go god-knows-where. Harry never even got to catch the blue eyes today. Something is wrong with Tomlinson. Not that Harry fucking cares. But he cares about winning, and if Louis fucking Tomlinson, the Prince of the Parking Lot is gonna sink their victory, then whatever grey cloud rumbling over his head is now Harry’s problem. 

The diving board creaks under Tomlinson’s weight, curving towards the water below as he steps further, the pool deck coated in silence, spectators and swimmers holding their breaths as he finds the edge, and turns around. Harry will never admit it, but he too didn’t breathe as Tomlinson hung his calloused heels off the edge of the diving board, toes clutching the rough surface, chin tucked low. Tomlinson never takes that final breath. Never expels whatever weight sits lifeless in his lungs. When he jumps, Harry already knows it’s wrong. He lands smooth enough, slipping beneath the surface of the water with little impact, but that third twist in the air is never completed. Tomlinson never looks at the judges scores when he emerges from the water, dark hair plastered to his forehead, obscuring his eyes, droplets trickling down his nose. 4 ½, 5, and 4. The scores don’t surprise Harry. The dive was never completed. 

When Harry walks up to the board, he makes sure to puff out his chest and spread his shoulders wide, each step purposeful on the slimy tile floor, wet hair slicked back into a messy bun, a slight chill already prickling his bare skin despite the humid temperatures. (Fucking Tomlinson. Gonna fucking lose the meet for us to a bunch of sad, white-trash hicks.) On the handles above the steps, Tomlinson’s sweaty handprint is smeared on the metal. Harry burns it away with the heat of his own hand, fingers stretching further than Tomlinson’s. The diving board creaks and bends under Harry, same as his teammate, it’s surface scratchy and harsh beneath his bare feet, pressing into the hardened skin of his soles. He lines himself along the edge, feeling the board curve dangerously low, loaded with his weight as he curls his toes over the lip, shadow reflected on the rippling water below. There’s a moment before one dives, when the audience doesn’t dare move a muscle, when the parents shut up their gossip and the swimmers freeze their rough-housing. A moment when only the jets on the sides of the pool gurgle with no regard as the entire pool deck falls silent. When all eyes are on you. Harry relishes in the moment. He knows Niall and Liam and the boys are watching, knows his coach and the judges too. Knows Susan and Richard are sitting in hard metal bleachers with sweat beneath their collars and dried gum beneath their shoes. Knows that for once that day, Louis Tomlinson has his blue eyes set on Harry. When he dives, when he expelled that last bit of anticipation and leaps, when he floats through the humidity, when his bun loosens with the force of his flips, when he slips silently into the pool, not a single lose drop of resistance splashes after him, Harry knows he’s nailed it. 

Cool water slurps his body downward, tugging him to the tiled bottom of the pool, where the pressure pops in his ears and the chemicals burn his eyes. As his toes hit the flooring, Harry surges upward, bursting at the surface and emerging with sopping water hair and three excellent scores waiting for him in the judges hands. As he blinks away the droplets from his eyelashes, Louis is turned away, scrubbing at his damp arms with a rag, tensed spine to Harry. Ignoring him for the millionth time that day. 

#

Wayne High wins the meet, plowing through their opponents like wheat, Niall racking up points right and left winning every event he's in. And Harry beats Tomlinson’s score by 16 points. And yes, barely a week ago Tomlinson told him _“we’re on the same team, dipshit”_ but Harry did secure their team more points and that does make him feel a twisted sense of pride. Though Tomlinson doesn’t even seem to notice. 

In the locker rooms after, the team crowds under the harsh showers, splashing in the collecting soapy water that pools around their ankles as they fuck around, pushing and shoving, laughing and whooping as slick shoulders press into bare chests and shampoo-covered backs. Niall jumps into Liam’s arms, wearing matching maroon speedos as they parade about the showers, hair a spiky mess. Harry slides between some underclassmen and Tomlinson, his broad shoulder “accidentally” bumping into the other diver as Tomlinson scrubs some fancy vanilla shampoo into his hair. 

“Reverse tucks were shit today, Tomlinson,” Harry greets, flipping the rusted shower handle to red, causing stale water to pelt down onto his curls from above. 

Tomlinson sighs, the suds running down his temples and pooling in the crevices of his ears. “Thanks for the input.” 

But he doesn’t look at Harry. Just continues to rinse out his hair. From this close, his elbows bump into Harry’s and the cocktail of vanilla and chlorine poisons the steam around them. Harry snatches the bottle of shampoo from the shower lip in front of Tomlinson. 

“Man-“ 

Harry squeezes the bottle till a fat wad of purple goop spurts into his palm, making the most obscene fart noise echoes between them. He sniffs the goop. 

“What type of Farrah Facett shit is this?” Harry asks, nose wrinkling at the smell. 

The bottle is snatched right from his grasp, Tomlinson clicking it shut close to his chest as Harry eyes him suspiciously. “It’s from Paris, asshole.” 

Harry snorts, lifting his palm as a mock toast. “Well then, bonjour bitch,” he says, before smacking it onto the top of his head, the purple goop plopping onto his chlorine-crusted roots. 

The blue eyes look at him, if just for a moment, color seeping through the rising steam between them, dark bags clutching beneath their red tear lines. There’s no fight in them today. Just, weight. Harry never thought the color blue could be so heavy. 

“Hey, Tommo!” the underclassmen beside Harry interrupts, causing both the boys to turn slowly, side-eyeing the acne-covered swimmer. 

He leans a little too close to Harry, yellow smile too large, the scent of vanilla becoming quickly overpowered by his drug store 3 in 1 shampoo, green suds still sticking to the edges of his scalp. “Heard your girlfriend left you for some art freak.” 

This makes Harry turn back around, eyebrow quirked high, a sneer stretching across his lips, cruelty twisting in his gut.  
“That right?” he asks, stepping aside to block said underclassmen. 

Those blue eyes focus on him alone. Cold. Icy. Tomslinson doesn’t say a word. His pale lips stay glued shut, shampoo bottle in hand, water pelting his chest. 

“Shit, if I’d know your brunette would be so easy to steal I’d have plucked her away myself.” 

It’s a lie. Harry doesn’t even remember the girl’s name, only that she was bitter and smelled like flowers while he was shit-faced earlier that week. Emma? Ella? Doesn’t matter. 

He steps forward, soapy water swishing at his ankles as he shifts from his own shower head to the next, invading Tomlinson’s water flow as it pours down over both of them. They can’t be more than a few inches apart, the rapidly cooling water gushing down their noses to Harry’s bared teeth and Tomlinson’s tight lips, Harry having the advantage of height, looking down at the other diver. Vanilla invades his lungs. Blue blurs his eyes. Cruelty spurs him on. 

He whispers carefully, tongue wet. “Bet she’ll ride me real nice in the backseat of my Camaro.” 

The punch comes obviously, Tomlinson making no effort to hold back as he socks Harry in the jaw, wet knuckles colliding with the bone as the impact shoves Harry back, shooting pain through his face and momentarily blinding him. The showers fall silent as Harry’s hand flies to his jaw, fingertips grazing over the rapidly brushing skin. Somewhere behind him a swimmer whispers, _“holy shit”_. A grin splits Harry’s face. (That’s more like it.) He’s punching back immediately, lurching forward beneath the spray as Tomlinson ducks away, before charging at Harry. His bony shoulder collides with Harry’s ribs, the impact knocking the air from his lungs as they stumble backwards, knocking into other wet swimmers, water splashing around their feet. Electricity surges through Harry’s veins as they crash into a wall, the tile slimy against his naked back. Grappling an arm around Tomlinson’s neck, locking his head to Harry’s side, Harry lands two hits to the other diver’s stomach, feeling the way Tomlinson tenses and seizes under his fists, before his legs are knocked from beneath him and they are both tumbling to the soapy floor, landing in a tangle of wet limbs and budding bruises. The boys around them are shouting, their words blurring into echoes, in cheer or alarm Harry can’t quite tell, but he’s the center of attention, and he’s got Louis Tomlinson trapped beneath him, landing a right hook to his cheek, the hit numbing his brain momentarily. And since the last week and a half he’s been in Wayne, Indiana, Harry has never felt so alive. Water splashes around them, tile digs into Harry’s knees and then his side as Tomlinson shucks him off, the locker room beating with shouts, and the skin of Tomlinson’s lips is splitting beneath his fist. Harry can’t quite tell where his body ends and the other diver’s begins, the world is smeared with flesh and blood and pain and shouts and Harry thinks that maybe he’s bit his tongue somewhere in the mix cause there’s a gush of wet coating his teeth, undeniably staining the bone red. He smiles as Tomlinson lands another hit to his skull, matching red trickling from his nose. Harry pins the other boy down in retaliation, straddling the taut skin of Tomlinson’s stomach between his wet thighs, one hand tearing back for another hit, the other clutching suspiciously close to the tender flesh of Tomlinson’s neck, thumb nearly dipping into the slope of his collar bones. One, two, three, direct punches to Tomlinson’s face, splitting Harry’s knuckles and wrecking the focus in those blue eyes, the irises nearly rolling to the back of his skull as Harry lands hit after hit. The shouting is getting louder. 

A pair of dry hands grip Harry’s shoulder, yanking him off the downed Tomlinson, tossing him aside beneath the shower spray. Harry thinks he sees the coach standing over and dazed and bloodied Tomlinson, maroon polo becoming soaked by the showers as his world spins. Somewhere behind him he hears Niall mutter, “Jesus fucking Christ.” 

Laughter bubbles in Harry’s throat. Indiana may suck ass but the Parking Lot Prince knows how to throw a punch and somehow, he finds that the fucking funniest thing in the currently dizzy world.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ya girl was a swimmer not a diver so bear with me on my really vague diving lingo


End file.
